


The Punk and the Florist

by rhysiana



Series: Petals and Thorns [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Florist!Nursey, Language of Flowers, M/M, Musician!Dex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysiana/pseuds/rhysiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Goddammit, Will thought as he dodged around a few strategically tall people and turned down a side street. How had he managed to leave the apartment without a hat? He peeked back around the corner. His fans were less than a block behind him, and he really couldn’t deal with them today. Frantically, he studied the shops around him, hoping for somewhere to hide.</p>
<p>Coffee shop? Too easy.</p>
<p>Ah! Nursery Rhymes: Poetic Floral Arrangements. Perfect. No one would ever look for him in there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Punk and the Florist

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to omgericzimmermann about AUs and found this in a prompt list: "I’m a punk singer and am hiding from fans in a florists and you work here and are snarky and funny and are adorable go out with me?" and she made me write it. It was going to just be a quick Tumblr thing, and then it just... kept going. 6800 words later, here we are.

_Goddammit_ , Will thought as he dodged around a few strategically tall people and turned down a side street. How had he managed to leave the apartment without a hat? He peeked back around the corner. His fans were less than a block behind him, and he _really_ couldn’t deal with them today. Frantically, he studied the shops around him, hoping for somewhere to hide.

Coffee shop? Too easy.

Ah! _Nursery Rhymes: Poetic Floral Arrangements_. Perfect. No one would ever look for him in there.

***

Mid-morning was always slow, so Derek was sitting at the counter, books open all around him, flipping through the volume on the language of flowers for inspiration, although at this point he basically had it memorized. Maybe he should just let the pages fall open randomly a few times and see what interesting combinations that might yield?

He looked up when the bell rang, automatic customer service smile softening to something more quizzical when he took in the man practically slamming the door shut behind him. He was looking back over his shoulder nervously, so Derek’s first impression was one of height, long limbs, and red hair that practically glowed against all the greenery in the front window. Derek’s day was looking up.

“Um, can I help you?” The guy turned toward him, providing Derek with the further details of an ear lined with piercings, a clenched jaw, sharp cheekbones covered in freckles, and intense amber eyes. “Holy shit, you’re Liam Dexter.”

The guy’s cheeks reddened immediately.

Derek wanted to slap himself. “I’m so sorry, please forget I said anything. This part of the day is just usually so dead, apparently my brain-to-mouth filter went on break without the rest of me.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a punk fan,” he said, looking Derek over.

Derek looked down at himself. Jeans, soft v-neck t-shirt under an unbuttoned button-down with rolled sleeves, his usual shop outfit. “Uh, yeah, not really. I mean, I listen to a bit of everything, but mostly I just don't live under a rock.”

The other guy clenched his hands in frustration and glanced back over his shoulder. “Look, there are fans following me. Can I hide in here? I’ll buy something. Something really expensive. Whatever, I don’t care, just don’t attract their attention.”

Derek considered being mildly offended for a second before he discarded the thought. “Chill, man, I’m not going to rat you out. Why don’t you step away from the window?”

“Oh, right.”

“Here, sit behind the counter, take off your jacket so you’re not wearing the same thing they last saw you in, and I’ll go rearrange stuff in the front as a lookout.”

“Thanks. So you were a spy in a former life, huh?”

“Nah, I just read a lot of mysteries. Pretend to be working.”

Derek grabbed a long-necked watering can to do some of the hanging baskets, looking casually out the window as he did. A gaggle of girls in ripped black jeans, eyeliner, and flannel shirts tied around their waists passed slowly, necks craning as they scanned the sidewalks. They looked right past the shop. He watered a few more baskets, since they had been on his afternoon schedule anyway, then returned to the counter. “All clear.”

Liam (Dexter? what did you call celebrities?) was flipping through his language of flowers book. “This is neat. I didn’t know flowers were supposed to have meanings. I mean, beyond the obvious metaphors.”

Derek leaned against the counter, trying to look casual to make up for his earlier celebrity encounter faux pas. Like he hadn’t lived in New York his whole life. _So not chill, Nurse_. “Yeah, I use it for my ‘Say It With Flowers’ bouquets.” He gestured to the side wall. “I keep some of the more popular ones made up all the time. They each have accompanying poems.” _Shut up, Nurse, he doesn’t care._

But Liam was up and walking over to examine them. He picked up the card from one of the bouquets and raised his eyebrows. Derek looked at the bouquet and grinned. “I hate you truly. Truly I do. / Everything about me hates everything about you,” Liam read.

“From ‘Hate Poem’ by Julie Sheehan. That’s one of the unsympathetic bouquets.”

Liam laughed. It was glorious. It transformed his face, his demeanor, his entire body.

_Oh, Derek, you are such an idiot._

***

The florist (the unfairly attractive florist) had given the all clear, but Will didn’t want to leave. This was the most relaxed he’d felt in days. He wasn’t sure when the last time he’d actually had a conversation with someone unrelated to the band was. He cast about for a reason to stay.

“Uh, could you design an arrangement for me?”

“Of course. Do you want it for _you_ , or to give to someone?”

“I’m honestly inclined to get unsympathetics for each of my bandmates right now.”

The florist visibly bit back a grin.

“Uh, don’t tell anyone.”

The guy assumed a solemn expression and raised one hand. “I never reveal the meanings and recipients of my bouquets. Florist’s oath.”

“Is that a thing?”

“No. But very few people actually bother to look into the language of flowers, so I can usually make up an alternative meaning for any given arrangement, if pressed. Not that it usually comes up anyway.”

Will smiled. “Hey, I didn’t get your name. I feel weird taking up so much of your time and using you for sanctuary without even a name to go with it.”

“Oh, sorry! Derek Nurse,” he said, extending his hand.

Will shook it, noticing the calluses that must come from gardening. “Ah, so the name of the shop…”

“Is a pun, yes. I kept so many plants in my room at school, people started referring to it as The Nursery, and I kept it.”

“And the rhymes?”

“English major.” The guy, Derek, shrugged. “I focused on poetry. A highly practical degree, as you can see.”

“Well, we’re standing in your shop, so it can’t be that bad.”

Derek looked vaguely embarrassed. “Eh, I do okay.” He stood a little straighter, as if intentionally shifting gears. “Were you serious about wanting arrangements?”

“Yeah, sure. I do owe you, after all.”

Derek waved that off. “Look, I’m going to flip the sign so no one else comes in while you’re here and then we can look through the book to come up with the perfect ‘screw you’ message.”

Will grinned at him. “Awesome.”

***

Derek smiled back. How could he not? _What are you doing?_ he asked himself as he switched the door sign. (“Closed. Off chasing the muse.” The normal one had the shop hours, but what was the point of owning the shop if he couldn’t take random days off?) Oh well. Even if this did turn out to be a stupid exercise in heartbreak, at least he’d probably get some poems out of it.

“C’mon, let’s take the books into the back. I’ve got coffee back there, too.”

“Oh, that would be great. Coffee was actually why I left my apartment in the first place. Apparently I ran out and didn’t notice.”

“The horror!” Derek dropped the stack of books on his arranging table and stepped over to the coffee pot on the counter, next to the industrial sinks still full of buckets of leftover cut flowers from this morning. “This clearly calls for a fresh pot.”

Liam appeared to be looking around with interest. He wandered over to the shelves of vases. “They’re all so different.”

“Pick something. The style of the vase can determine the style of the arrangement. I don’t know your bandmates, so you’ll have to decide what looks like them. Or at least what looks like the message you want to send.” He busied himself for a few minutes with getting the coffee pot set up again, giving Liam a chance to look without feeling pressured, but then he turned around to watch. He liked observing his clients to get a feel for what they liked, what they were looking for.

Liam was crouched down on his heels to look at the vases on the bottom shelf, treating Derek to an extremely unfair display of his ass and thighs. His t-shirt stretched across admirable shoulders as he reached out to pick up a swirled black-and-green glass vase Derek had never liked. He looked back over his shoulder, effortlessly maintaining his balance in what should have been an awkward position, and held it up triumphantly. “This is hideous!”

“Why do you think it’s on the bottom shelf?”

Liam rose. _How could anyone move that elegantly in motorcycle boots?_ This was ticking off entirely too many of Derek’s bad-boy fantasies. “It’s perfect. This is exactly the vase James deserves after this week.”

“And does James deserve actually ugly flowers as well, or deceptively nice-looking flowers with a passive-aggressive message?”

Liam appeared to consider this seriously for a second before sighing. “Nice but passive-aggressive. He _deserves_ a bundle of thorns, but mostly he’s just being a moron and we’ll make up in a week like we always do, because it’s not like we’re breaking up the band or anything.” He sat and scrubbed his hands through his hair, causing it to stick up adorably.

“What’s got you so annoyed at this particular moment?”

“We’re supposed to be working on a new album and I’ve been stuck talking to people about it non-stop for going on five days now. And _James_ …” He paused to glare murderously at the vase in front of him. “James has suddenly decided he’s God’s gift to song-writing. He is an undeniably gifted guitarist, but if he can string together two coherent lines in a row, I’ve yet to see it. I think he has a new girlfriend. Ugh.” He folded his arms on the table and let his head fall onto them with a thunk.

Derek turned to check on the coffee. Not totally done, but there was certainly enough for one mug. He yanked the pot and quickly filled one of the oversized mugs he kept for morning work, then stuffed the pot back under the drip mechanism before too much could fall on the burner. He’d clean it up later.

He set the mug on the table and nudged Liam’s shoulder. Nicely muscled shoulder. _Stop it, Derek._ “Liam. Coffee.” He fought the temptation to smooth that disheveled red hair.

Liam raised his head and looked at the size of the mug with appreciation. “Thank god.”

“Milk? Sugar?”

“No, black is good.” He sat all the way up and took the mug in his hands. Derek found himself admiring those long guitarist’s fingers. _Dammit_. “Hey, could you call me Will? Liam is mostly just my stage name, and I really don’t want to be that guy today.”

Derek was pretty proud of his brain for not just shorting out at this point. He cleared his throat and turned to get his own coffee, really not caring if the pot was done this time _at all_. “Sure.” Excellent, he could still talk. A good sign. “So. It sounds like maybe James needs a nice arrangement of narcissus and buttercups.”

“Yeah? What do those mean?”

“Egotism and childishness.”

Liam, no, _Will_ , choked on the tail end of a swallow of coffee and then laughed until he had to wipe his eyes. “Oh god, it’s perfect.”

“Here, look through the books and see if you can find a poem you want to go on the card while I try to make this into something that won’t look truly hideous with that vase. I’ll be glad to see it leave the shop.”

“Couldn’t be going to a more deserving guy. He has no taste, he won’t even notice.”

***

Will was smiling as he pulled one of the poetry books toward him, cradling his mug of coffee close to his chest. He could feel the warmth spreading through him, though maybe that wasn’t just the coffee.

He looked up through his eyelashes to try to get an inconspicuous glimpse of Derek working. When it was clear the other man was busy looking through one of his buckets of flowers, he let himself look his fill. Surely all florists weren’t that built. Even with multiple layers on, there was no disguising the width of his shoulders. And his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the play of muscles in his forearms. Will watched him snip a flower stem at an angle and noticed a line of words written down the inside of one arm. He _really_ wanted to know what it said.

Derek turned to lay some flowers on the worktable next to the vase. Will quickly looked back at the book. Derek drank some of his own coffee as he contemplated the vase for a second, then shucked his outer shirt and went to a cooler case on the other side of the room. Which gave Will the nice opportunity to admire his ass as he walked away, and to notice a tattooed band just showing at the edge of one sleeve. _Unfair. So unfair._ There was no way this guy was single. And he certainly didn’t deserve any of the idiocy Will’s fame brought to a relationship.

He allowed himself to be drawn into the poetry in an effort to distract himself from those fruitless thoughts, but soon he really wasn’t looking for ways to tell off James anymore. It had been so long since he read poems that weren’t actually lyrics, he’d forgotten how many different ways there were to describe love and longing. He spent so much time focused on frustration and anger. Which were cathartic, not to mention lucrative, but he was honestly feeling really tired right now.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he startled when Derek turned the vase toward him with a “Ta-da!” and a presentational flourish.

The vase was still as ugly as ever, but somehow Derek had managed to turn it into the only possible vessel for a striking arrangement of feathery greenery, narcissi, and little buttercups. It wasn’t anyone’s idea of a classical floral arrangement, but it drew the eye with brash uniqueness. And Will had clearly read too much poetry all at once. He could feel his vocabulary stretching back out again.

“Wow,” he managed to say out loud. “I didn’t think it’d look that good.”

“I’m not sure if I should feel complimented or insulted.”

Will blinked at him. “Complimented! Definitely complimented. That vase was a lot to overcome.”

Derek batted his eyelashes in false modesty. “Why, thank you.”

“I, uh, how much do I owe you?” Will asked, suddenly realizing he’d used up his reason to stay. He reached for his wallet.

Derek’s pleased smirk faded a bit. “Oh, um.” He eyed the arrangement. “Like, $25?”

Will frowned. “I don’t buy a lot of flowers, but surely that’s cheap?”

“You’re taking that vase off my hands, don’t worry about it.”

“But you closed the shop while I was in here.”

“Seriously, it’s fine. I didn’t mind.” Derek was smiling at him again, but it was softer now, less teasing. More honest.

Will took a deep breath, and then took a chance. “Hey, Derek?”

“Yeah, Will?”

“I don’t want to leave.”

Derek took a step forward. “So don’t.”

***

He heard the words come out of his mouth, and he didn’t regret them, but he wasn’t entirely sure his brain had been involved in that decision. Screw it, today was clearly impulsiveness day. And Will looked like he needed a friend.

He turned back to the arrangement, picked it up, and walked over to put it in the cooler. It’d keep… and if it didn’t, it wasn’t like he couldn’t make another one. _Worth it_ , he thought to himself.

Then he walked back to Will, who was watching him unabashedly now, though he’d tried to be subtle before. Derek hooked his shirt off the back of the chair where he’d tossed it earlier and held out his hand. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs.” _Forward much, Derek?_

“Upstairs?”

“My apartment. It’s where I keep the food and the comfortable furniture. Let’s go.” _Don’t care._

***

Will took his hand and let Derek lead him up the stairs. At the top was a green door that opened directly into Derek’s living room. Will looked around, taking in the exposed brick walls, the tall windows over low brick-and-board shelves that housed a record collection underneath and were covered in potted orchids and succulents on top, hanging baskets with vines trailing out of them and trained along string around the room… plants everywhere, really. And two very comfortable couches arranged in an L towards the TV, which was in turn surrounded by bookshelves. He could feel the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

Derek smiled as he watched his reaction, still holding his hand. He squeezed it lightly, seemingly in support. Will wondered what on Earth he looked like to deserve such a thing. No one ever treated him this gently, especially not when they knew who he was.

“Why don’t you go sit down? I know I just gave you coffee, but you seem tired.”

Will laughed weakly. “That obvious?”

“Let me go evaluate whether I have stuff for lunch. Make yourself at home. Really.” Derek squeezed his hand once more and then walked over to the kitchen.

Will wandered over to the bookshelves. Mysteries, science fiction, romance, and poetry, of course, so much poetry. Will trailed his fingers along the shelves until he came to _Leaves of Grass_. He smiled sardonically at himself, but pulled it down anyway. Because of course if he was going to follow a new crush upstairs to his apartment on a whim, he should read longing descriptions of the male form and relive high school all over again, surely.

He sank down on one of the couches, intending to actually read, but ended up just letting himself go boneless in the sunlight, eyes half-closed, all the plants turning into a blurred green mosaic in front of him.

A hand smoothed his hair gently and he started to open his eyes. “Shhhh, you’re fine. Kick your boots off and just lie down. Seriously.”

“But…”

“No expectations. I’m just happy to have you here. And you clearly need to sleep.”

Will was honestly too tired and too comfortable to argue.

When he woke up an hour later, there was a neon pink sticky note on the cushion beside his head. _Lunch is on the roof. Follow the signs._ When he sat up, he could see another pink square stuck to the wall with an arrow drawn on it. He followed the arrows up two flights of stairs and emerged to find himself in the middle of a rooftop garden.

Not a movie fantasy garden, but a rather utilitarian garden of boxed beds full of flowers being grown by type, with a greenhouse at the end. It still looked amazing, and was all the more surreal for being in the middle of New York City, the sounds of traffic floating up from the streets below.

Derek was moving between the beds with a hose. “There you are! Feel better?”

“I really do.”

“Lunch is over there,” Derek said, pointing to a patio table off to the side, where there was indeed food. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

Will seated himself and started inspecting the offerings. Pita, vegetables, hummus, brownies…

“I didn’t want to Google-stalk you to figure out if you were vegetarian or allergic to anything, so I figured hummus is pretty much always safe,” Derek said as he threw himself into the chair across the table.

“And the brownies?”

“What? More than half the meal is vegetables. They totally balance out! And they have cherries in them. Fruit. Practically health food.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Derek grinned and tapped the pitcher in the middle of the table. “Lemonade. Dig in.”

Will did, then gestured around them. “How’d you convince the rest of the building to let you do this?”

“Oh. It’s my building. No one else to ask.”

Will squinted at him. “So… is flower arrangement weirdly more lucrative than I thought, or…?”

Derek gave a wry twist of his lips. “Sort of? Not really? I mean, my shop does perfectly well. But I bought the building and started the shop with my trust fund after I graduated college, both because it seemed like something I would enjoy doing, but also because it pissed my parents off immensely.”

Will raised his eyebrows.

“Rich kid, English major, parents wanted me to follow them into the family business, blah blah blah, my life is very boring. The trust fund was from my grandparents and I got control of it when I graduated. This building is my rebellion.”

“Trust me, I’ve seen worse rebellions.”

“Me, too. I mean, I went to Andover, do you know how many wrecked sports cars I’ve seen? I didn’t want to do that. It’s practically edgy to be responsible in those circles. So I drew up a business plan with my college econ major friend, bought a building, remodeled the shop, got the apartment part exactly the way I wanted it, and now I basically never go anywhere or do anything else unless absolutely necessary.”

“That sounds…”

“Stultifyingly dull?”

“…peaceful. Amazing. Perfect.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.” Derek seemed to be digesting the idea that someone actually approved of what he’d done with his life. “Want to see the rest of the apartment?”

“Yes.”

Working back down from the roof, the fourth floor housed a surprisingly complete gym (“I played college hockey. It’s hard to get out of the workout habit,” Derek explained, as if Will for some reason wanted him to excuse himself for looking that good), and an office, full of more bookshelves. Will looked more closely at the shelf just to right of the desk, which seemed to have multiple copies of several of the same books.

“Derek…”

“Yeah?”

“These have your name on them.”

Derek ran his hand down the back of his neck and looked away. “Yeah. Poetry. It’s not like anyone reads it.”

“You have multiple volumes of poetry actually published. I’m pretty sure that means someone reads it. Multiple someones.”

“Okay, yes, fine, it’s not bad. I’m just supposed to be working on another collection and I’m trying not to think about it. Next room!”

Given that Will had basically run away from home in an effort to not think about his next album, he had no room to criticize, so he followed Derek down the stairs to the third floor.

“Bedrooms,” Derek said, opening doors. “Mine, guest, guest, bathroom. You can pick anywhere you’d like. Uh…” His words seem to catch up with him just then. “I mean, if you want to stay the night. That would be fine. With me.”

Will couldn’t take the nervous uncertainty anymore. He stepped forward and cupped the back of Derek’s head. “I would like that, yes,” he said, and then he kissed him.

Derek’s arms came up around him, enveloping him in warmth that smelled like sunshine and geraniums. The kiss started tentative and slow, but grew steadily surer, the two of them exactly the same height and enjoying it. Will wondered if this was as rare for Derek as it was for him. He slid his fingers through the short hair at Derek’s nape, trailed his thumb along his lightly stubbled jaw. He finally broke the kiss because he was smiling too much to maintain it. He drew back and took a moment to study Derek’s fascinating gray-green eyes. “Hi,” he breathed.

“Hi,” Derek replied, sounding as dazed as Will felt. Derek blinked a few times. “Thank you. I was trying to figure out a way to do that without being presumptuous.”

“Please, presume anytime.” Will gave his best leer. (It honestly wasn’t very good—he spent more time trying to get fans to go away than to come hither—but it made Derek laugh.)

“I can’t tell if that’s a terrible pick-up line or genius.”

“Is it working?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s genius.”

***

They ended up back in the living room, making out on the couch like teenagers while ostensibly watching a movie, talking, making dinner, talking some more, for hours and hours, at which point it didn’t even feel awkward for Derek to toss Will a pair of pajama pants from his dresser and dig out a spare toothbrush in his bathroom. They fell asleep mid-conversation and woke up spooning in a patch of morning sunlight. Derek wanted to pinch himself, but that would require moving his arm from where it was draped over Will’s chest. He pressed a kiss into Will’s shoulder instead.

“Hey,” Will mumbled sleepily.

“Hey yourself.”

Will ran his fingers up and down Derek’s arm and intertwined their fingers.

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Mmmm, what?”

“Pinch me? I’m not actually sure this isn’t a really vivid dream.”

At this, Will flipped over and rolled Derek onto his back. His hand skimmed Derek’s ribs and then pinched him right in the most ticklish part of his side. Derek laughed and squirmed.

“Are you convinced? Do you need more proof?” Will asked with a wicked grin.

“No, no, stop,” Derek gasped, trying to get away from Will’s tickling fingers.

“Maybe I should convince you in other ways,” Will murmured before lightly sucking a row of kisses down the side of Derek’s neck.

“I changed my mind. If this is a dream, I’m good with it,” Derek sighed.

***

When Derek finally made it out of bed an hour later, Will had dozed off again. Derek ran his fingers lightly down Will’s spine appreciatively, then went to make coffee. He contemplated the contents of his fridge. There was probably enough food for another day, maybe two. And there was always delivery, of course. Good, no reason to break the spell any sooner than necessary. Things like this did not happen to him. He intended to enjoy it.

The whole weekend really did feel like living inside an enchanted bubble. They talked, they ate, they lay tangled on the couch, the bed, the deck chairs on the roof. They worked out together. They fell into silent moments that felt entirely natural. Will found Derek’s long-abandoned acoustic guitar in the corner of the office and retuned it. He sat and played snatches of songs with one leg thrown over the arm of chair in the corner while Derek actually wrote three poems and edited two others he’d thought he’d given up on.

They made up a game in which Will picked three random flowers out of the language of flowers book and Derek had to design something appropriate with them. Will’s underlying meanings got increasingly risqué. Derek wove a flower crown out of the leftover bits and made Will wear it until they went back upstairs. Will borrowed a notebook from Derek and appeared to be challenging himself to write song lyrics using the flower messages, too, but Derek didn’t know enough about music to decipher all the scratched out lines and scribbled chords, so he had no idea if it was yielding actual results. Will didn’t seem frustrated, in any case, so Derek figured a fun writing exercise was a fun writing exercise, not matter the type of writing. The guitar and notebook started moving with Will from room to room.

On Monday, the inevitable happened, and Derek ran out of both coffee and bagels. He left Will sleeping and slipped out to the coffee shop a few doors down. He ordered two lattes, some croissants, and a bag of house blend beans to take back, then perused the various newspapers while he waited. His eyes widened and he slapped three different papers down in front of the cashier when his name was called, gathered his order, and reminded himself not to run all the way back to his building. It wouldn’t do to waste the coffee, and clearly the damage had already been done.

“Will?” he called as he dropped off the food in the kitchen. He picked up one of the lattes and a newspaper and headed up the stairs, listening for signs of life. “Hey, Will?”

“Up here,” came his voice faintly from the top floor. Derek found him in the gym on the rowing machine, where he’d clearly been working hard enough to work up a sweat, although he was now leaning over to write something in the notebook on the floor beside him.

Derek sat down on the floor beside him, positioning the latte beside the notebook like a peace offering. “So… when you left your apartment for coffee the other day, did you, by chance, leave your phone behind?”

Will sat up and stared at him. His brows furrowed in confusion and then cleared. “I guess I must have. I should have realized it was too quiet, but I didn’t even think about it. Why?”

Derek spread the newspaper out on the floor in front of him. A photo of Will performing on stage, eyeliner and all, took up a third of the front page.

 

_ROCK STAR LIAM DEXTER MISSING FOR THREE DAYS!_

_Police have been called in to help search for missing punk musician Liam Dexter, last seen Friday morning. Bandmate James Townes was the last person known to see him, stating that Dexter claimed he was going for coffee but left in a state of extreme agitation. Anyone who may have seen Dexter since then is encouraged to contact the tip line at…_

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Will muttered. “Can I borrow your phone?”

Derek silently handed it over.

Will dialed a number from memory. “Christina, put Geoff on the phone right now. Yes, it’s W—Liam, you know it’s me. Thank you.”

He drummed his fingers impatiently against the frame of the rowing machine, then planted his feet and stood up to pace.

“Geoff, what the fuck, man! No, I’m not dead! Jesus. I just left my phone at home by accident. No, I am not drunk, you’re not talking to Mike. James was just driving me insane, _as you know_ , and I needed to get away. I did go out for coffee, I just… didn’t come back. I’ve been writing. Yes, seriously. No, I will not tell you where. You tracked my credit cards?! That’s just creepy, man. Christ. No, I’ll come back on my own, you will _not_ send a fucking car. I’ll be back this afternoon. You know we’re not actually your children, right? Fine. Go deal with the police now that you know I’m not missing. I’ll see you later.”

He clenched the phone in his hand after he hung up, but seemed to remember it wasn’t his just in time to refrain from throwing it across the room. He handed it back to Derek before spinning in a circle and screaming a frustrated “Argh!” at the ceiling.

“Goddammit, this was clearly too good to last.” He dragged his hands down his face before scrubbing them back through his hair and collapsing onto the floor. He reached out and picked up the latte. “I’m really sorry about this.”

Derek looked at him in surprise. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything. I should have asked if you needed to call anyone or…”

Will waved this off. “No, no, if it’s not my fault, it’s _definitely_ not yours.” He sighed. “Now I just have to figure out how to get back without attracting any attention. You do not deserve any of the bullshit that comes with my life.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. I’ll just call my parents’ car service. I never use it anymore, but they deal with ambassadors and billionaires and celebrities all the time, so they’re guaranteed to be discreet. My mother doesn’t settle for anything less.”

“What exactly do your parents do?”

“Rich people stuff? Import/export, investments, charity functions, whatever. They hobnob and move money around. I try not to pay too much attention.” He stood and offered his hand to Will to pull him up, too. “I’ll go call them. You come down when you’re ready, okay? I got croissants. We’ll figure it out.”

Will pulled him in for a kiss before he let go. “You’re taking this much better than I would have expected. Thank you.”

Derek gave a weak smile and reminded himself to maintain his chill, because outward panic never helped anything. “Shit happens.”

Will sighed. “Yeah.”

Derek headed downstairs, wishing the dream wasn’t over.

***

Will finished his latte (no point in wasting coffee, since that was what had started all of this anyway), showered, pulled on his own jeans and boots and borrowed everything else from Derek’s dresser, as he’d been doing for the past several days, and walked down to the kitchen feeling like the world was ending. Realistically, he’d known this couldn't last, but that clearly hadn’t stopped him from hoping. Wishing. Desperately wanting.

Derek looked up when he walked in and gave him a heartbreakingly gorgeous smile. “That shirt looks good on you.”

Will looked down to check what he’d ended up in. It was green, like approximately fifty percent of Derek’s shirts, which Will assumed was due to being surrounded by plants all day. “Yeah, well, redhead. I hear we look good in green.”

Derek’s eyes crinkled at the corners a little and he half-nodded in acknowledgement. “I happen to think you look good in any color, but I am partial to seeing you in my clothes.”

Will honest-to-god blushed like he was fifteen.

Derek pushed a plate with a croissant and some strawberries on it across the island to him and waved at him to sit on one of the barstools. “So I called the car service and told them to be here at two, since you said you wanted to be back this afternoon.”

“‘Want’ isn’t really the word for it,” Will muttered.

“Yeah, well.”

“No, really, thank you. Two is probably perfect. It’ll give me just enough time to get there, yell at everyone during business hours, and then go home so I can justifiably lock them all out for the rest of the night.”

Derek reached out and brushed his fingers over Will’s knuckles. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Will smiled weakly. “Are you kidding? These were the best three days I’ve had in years. Ever, maybe.”

“Yeah, just…” Derek trailed off. He placed his palms firmly on the counter and pushed himself up firmly. “Let’s make the most of the time you have left here. What do you need to take back? I know you’ve been doing a lot of writing, so that notebook, obviously…”

“That’s probably it. It’s not like I brought anything with me. Let’s just… sit, okay? I think I want a few more hours of not doing anything.”

“Sure. Roof?”

“Yeah.”

Will stopped in the office to grab the guitar and then spent the next several hours on a deck chair, playing whatever came to mind as Derek wandered around amongst the plants. They ate lunch up there, too, much like their first day, and then Will pulled Derek down with him on the deck chair and just held him, idly tracing the lines of his tattoos and breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

At 1:45, the alarm on Derek’s phone went off. He sat up and attempted a smile, but Will could see he was actually trying not to cry, so he pulled him in for a kiss. It wouldn’t actually make things better, but it was all he could do. As they made their way back downstairs, he stopped to put the guitar back. “Do you want to take it?” Derek asked. “It’s not like I ever play it.”

Will froze, hand hovering over the neck of the guitar he’s just put back in its case. “No,” he said, and Derek’s face twisted a little, like he had wanted Will to take something of his and was sad Will didn’t want it. “No, it needs to stay here. If it doesn’t, what will I play the next time I’m here?”

Derek’s eyes lit up. “Next time?”

“I don’t know when that will be, but I have to believe it will happen. This is too good not to try, right?” He rose from his crouch next to the guitar and crossed back over to where Derek stood in the doorway.

“Yes,” Derek breathed, cupping Will’s face in his hands to kiss him once more, like a promise.

Derek’s phone chimed with a text from the driver, so they hurried down to the shop. “Oh! The flowers,” Derek said, grabbing them from the cooler. They’d kept well. Will accepted them with a laugh.

“Maybe this vase isn’t that ugly after all.”

Derek pursed his lips, then shook his head. “No, it really is. Promise me you’ll give it to James. You don’t deserve to have to look at that every day. I’ll send you something better.”

Another text chime sounded.

“You’d better go.”

Will drew in a shuddery breath. “Yeah. I… I’ll talk to you later.”

Derek walked him to the door. Will looked back as the car started down the street. Derek raised his hand in farewell. They watched each other until the car turned the corner.

***

“Manic Generation’s new album, _In the Garden_ , marks an interesting departure from their previous, more traditional approach to punk. In what this reviewer views as a sign of artistic maturation and growth, the new album maintains a theme throughout, drawing inspiration, according to lead singer Liam Dexter, from the language of flowers, which he discovered during his writing retreat last September, an incident readers may remember, as he disappeared for three days, causing his manager to report him as missing.

“‘In case anyone thinks basing an album on flowers is causing us to lose our punk edge, let me assure you, the language of flowers can be pretty sarcastic,’ Dexter noted in our interview. ‘I’ll never receive a flower arrangement without trying to read meaning into it ever again.’”

***

“And who should I make this out to?”

“Lorraine. Thank you so much! I really liked the constellation theme in this collection. And all the fire imagery. Very inspiring.”

“Thank you so much. And thank you for coming tonight.”

Derek flexed his fingers briefly under the table. The next person in line set down a stack of four books, and Derek blinked in surprise, recognizing all of his published volumes. He looked up to find Will’s intense gaze and blinding smile. “Can you make these out to Will?”

“All four of them?”

“Yes. I just discovered your work, and I had to buy everything I could find.”

Derek tried not to smirk. “I didn’t think that first volume was even in print anymore.”

“Took me a while to find it, but I didn’t mind. It was worth the wait.”

Derek was sure he was blushing and hoped the other people in the signing line didn’t notice. He grabbed a bit of scrap paper, scribbled _Done in 30 mins, wait for me?_ , and tucked into the last book like a bookmark.

“It’s always great to meet a new fan.”

“Absolutely.”

Signing for the rest of the line passed with agonizing slowness. As soon as the last person was gone, he gathered up his Sharpies as fast as he could, shook hands and said thank you to all the bookstore staff with far more terseness than they deserved, and then scanned frantically over the tops of the shelves for a flash of red hair. He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, then relaxed when it pressed down soothingly. “Hey,” Will murmured in his ear, drawing him behind the pillar he’d been standing next to.

“Hi,” Derek said, turning with a smile. “I see you made it back from your tour.”

“I did.”

“Did you get the flowers?”

“At every venue, yes. My manager thinks my publicist was doing it, and my publicist thinks it was my manager.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Definitely not. My standards are much higher. And I’m not going home with either of them.”

“Are you going home with me?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How long can I keep you?”

“Forever?”

Derek sucked in a breath and stared at him. “Do you mean it?”

“Honestly? Yes. But for now I’ve told my manager that I won’t be answering my phone for the next week for any reason.”

Derek pulled him in and kissed him fiercely. “It’s a good start.”

Will pulled a knit cap out of his pocket and pulled it on over his hair. “I called the car service myself this time.”

He caught Derek’s hand, and, laughing, Derek let Will pull him out into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> *I realized (after someone asked) that I never actually said what the line on Derek's arm is, and I think I settled on "Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera" (trans. "They can cut all the flowers, but they cannot prevent spring from coming") for this universe's version of Nursey. I basically always choose Neruda for him, but in this case I see this as a tattoo he got in his Andover days as sort of an "it gets better" reminder to himself. (I honestly have too many thoughts about Nursey's tattoos.)  
> *There is now fan art for this story! See [here](http://bittysplaylist.tumblr.com/post/148729522129/some-fanart-of-rhysianas-wonderful-fanfic-the) for @bittysplaylist's _amazing_ illustration of Will and Derek in the shop.  
>  *More fan art! Go look at [this beautiful art](http://showsonface.tumblr.com/post/149272149782/podr%C3%A1n-cortar-todas-las-flores-pero-no-podr%C3%A1n) by @showsonface!


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